


Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.7

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"These are the times that try mens' souls." T.Paine<br/>One year post-513</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Not Time's Fool Part I Ch.7

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Shakespeare’s sonnet #116

                                                                               
                             
_  
                                                                 “Something’s coming. I don’t know what it is._ _It’s only just out of reach. Maybe tonight.”_

 

 

          Brian checked himself in the full-length mirror—perfectly creased trousers, form-fitting jacket, and the unmistakable bling of the Bulgari watch and cufflinks. Pleased with the image, he scooped his wallet and room key off the dresser and headed out. He strode through the contemporary blue and gray lobby with the gait of a man on a mission. Oblivious to the boisterous laughter, chattering voices, and piano jazz drifting from the lounge, he caught the eye of the concierge.

__ **He had the aristocratic air of one who deserved and expected admiration from mere mortals. On a pedestal built with unshed tears, he proudly stood. Placed there by his own ego and bolstered by those around him, he was entitled to nothing less.** __

                                                                                   

        “Cab, Mr. Kinney?”

         He gave a brief nod. “Please.”

        When he stepped outside, the sharp autumn air hit him with a slap. He shivered against the unwelcome chill. “Christ!”

         The doorman grinned. “Weather sure took a turn, didn’t it?”

        “Yeah, and not for the better.” He blew cigarette smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

        “Where to, sir?”

         He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket. Not that he needed it. The letters and numbers were seared into his brain. But it gave him something to do. “Three forty-one West Broadway.”

                                                   

        The doorman hailed a taxi with a well-practiced arm and motioned it to the curb _,_ repeating the address to the driver through a partially cracked window. He opened the passenger door and after pressing a bill into the gloved palm, Brian climbed in. The uniformed man touched his cap in thanks and closed the door, softly humming, “It’s been a long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come.”

                                                                                                         ****  
        Justin approached the gallery one hesitant step at a time, uncertain what to expect. He had been dismissed earlier by a frustrated Sofia who complained he was more of a hindrance than a help. Butterflies flapping in his gut, he pushed the door open with a sweaty palm.

        He stopped mid-stride and froze. Eyes wide as a third-grader on the first day of school, he took it all in. Skillfully bathed in a soft wash of well-placed spotlights, his canvases glowed with depth of color and ethereal detail. It was like seeing them for the first time, as if a stranger had created each one. Entranced, he didn’t notice Sofia standing next to him.

       “They're wonderful, aren't they?” she murmured.

        He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The realization that tonight was his personal mountain top of the past twelve months filled him with wondrous satisfaction. That the next few hours could determine his future scared the shit out of him.

       When he was confident words wouldn’t choke him, he asked, “But what if everyone hates them?” His brows scrunched together at such a dreadful scenario.

      “Oh, for God sake! They won’t! Justin, your work overflows with— I don’t know how to describe it, an inner fire? Very few young artists possess the talent to convey such passion.”

      “And if people like them for the wrong reasons?”

      “Is there a right reason? Why does one person rave about a particular movie or book and another one doesn’t? Not everyone is educated in form and perspective, but they know what they like. They know what moves them. Despite the efforts of critics to label and categorize, the arts will always be subjective because its core is about emotion.” She surveyed the room with a discerning gaze. “And your paintings, mon chéri, have it in spades. They make people feel. Doesn’t matter what. It matters that they do. And when the magic happens, they buy.” Her eyes narrowed. “That _is_ the goal, isn’t it?”

      “But what if they don’t?” He couldn’t shake the persistent thought. “Other galleries won’t take a chance on an artist who bombed his first time out.” He swallowed around a growing lump of hopelessness. “Then everything will have been for nothing.”

      “You’ll sell, Justin.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Maybe not all of them and maybe not tonight, but once word gets around, they’ll be gone.”

      Movement caught her eye. A few people were already milling outside. She glanced at her wrist. “Almost show time, Mr. Taylor. Why don’t you go upstairs while I tend to the masses?”

       He turned halfway up the steps. “Sofia—”

       She flashed him a grin. “Don’t mention it. You thanked me by having the intelligence to wear that outfit. Go collect yourself so you can make an appropriate entrance.”

                                                                                                         ****  
       Hands shoved into his pockets, he stood in the center of the spacious second-floor gallery revisiting scenes from a life that felt so long ago. He tried to absorb what he had accomplished, wrestling with emotions that pitted the thrill of having his work shown against the price he had to pay.  
                              
       A dreamy expression crossed his face. He remembered his satisfaction at finishing the canvas of a nude Brian by the loft door. After washing paint off his brushes and himself, he had gone to bed with a niggling sense something was missing. Inspiration hit late one night, prompting him to add strokes of red to the flesh tone and a glaze of umber to the underpainting. When he finished at four in the morning, his hand throbbed and his back ached. But he was content.

                                                                                                        

      He shook himself out of his stupor. He didn’t want to analyze his art. Not now. Maybe someday. Before heading down, he gave one last look. With a lightning bolt of awareness, he made a hiccupping noise midway between a sob and a gasp. He didn’t have to analyze. It was right there in front of him—the slender thread that tied his works together. Brian.

_“Search your heart, search your soul. And when you find me there, you’ll search no more.”_ _©B.Adams_                                                                                                                                                                ****  
      

       The first guests entered against a backdrop of local musicians playing an eclectic mix of tunes. In addition to a central bar that served cocktails and nonalcoholic drinks, eager-to-please waiters carried trays of wine, champagne, and appetizers to the disparate crowd.                                    

                                                                                                                                                                                       
       From opposite ends of the financial spectrum, gray heads and buzz cuts, creamy pearls and faded jeans, pseudo intellectuals and the merely curious chatted about art in small groups, their hushed tones occasionally punctuated with incongruous bursts of laughter.

                                                                    

       He arrived on the main level and sucked in a breath at the number of people. Hit with an overpowering blend of cloying perfumes, an intense need to gag threatened his dignity. He snatched a glass of champagne from a waiter and downed it in one gulp. His empty and jittery stomach gurgled its displeasure, and he was tempted to grab another, a full bottle if it would anesthetize his nerves. But getting hammered in the presence of pompous patrons of the arts wouldn't be an auspicious start to his fledgling career. He tapped down his hysteria but couldn't stop a snicker when he remembered his numerous cautions maligning Brian’s methods of pain management. _Talk about the pot calling the kettle black._

       In the middle of an uninspiring discussion about what constitutes good art, Sofia spotted him and shepherded him around as the next big thing to hit the art world. As liquor flowed and hors d’oeuvres disappeared, guests critiqued his art. In between sips and bites, he heard bits and pieces.

      “I find the reds too jarring. And what about the sexual references?”

      “Obviously, it’s what he intended.”

      “His technique is very Freudian, imaginative at a base level, as if his creativity has nowhere to go except onto the canvas.”

       When a group gathered around one of his large paintings, he whispered, “Do you think anyone will buy it?”

       They circulated and shook hands, Sofia graciously accepting accolades for her expertise and Justin for his talent. His cheeks ached. He didn’t want all of this. He wanted to paint. He couldn’t stop looking at the clock or at the door. The catalyst that snapped him out of his ennui was Lindsay and his mother. When they arrived, he rushed to greet them.

     “Hi guys!” Beaming with happiness, he gave them each an enthusiastic hug.

      “Justin, this amazing! All these people here for your work!” Lindsay gushed. Impressed by the turn out, her eyes darted from one end of the gallery to the other.

       Jennifer pivoted in a circle to take it all in. She couldn't stop shaking her head. “Oh, Justin! This, this is.... I am so very, very proud of you!”

      His eyes burned at her pride. He recalled how she drove him to the library for book reports, helped him with Halloween costumes, and spent summers teaching him to swim. Flooded with memories, he couldn’t begin to list them all. Even when she was angry or impatient, he never doubted her love. “Thanks for coming, Mom.”

      After bringing them wine and making sure they sampled the miniature tea-smoked chicken and polenta cups stuffed with red peppers, he steered them around the gallery. It was the most relaxed he'd felt in days. He hated to see them go and would have preferred to spend the rest of the evening with only them. But this event wasn’t social. It was business.

                                                                                                                     

       Before they left, Jennifer explained Debbie wanted to make the trip but was bedridden with the flu, and Carl wouldn’t allow it no matter how loud she ranted. With Gus at his maternal grandparents’ house, Michael and Ben were babysitting JR while Melanie was at a conference in Chicago. She had arranged a stopover in New York before meeting up with Lindsay in Pittsburgh, collecting the kids, and returning to Toronto. Barring unforeseen emergencies, Ted and Emmett planned on a road trip next weekend with Michael and Ben. Unspoken questions about unmentioned people dangled above them like a swaying piñata. He wasn’t going to crack it open and hoped they wouldn’t either. He didn’t want to know what was inside.

      As they said their goodbyes, he vowed to call more often and Jennifer promised she’d bring Molly the next time. When Lindsay commented wistfully—too much so for his liking—that he really was following his dream, sarcasm and bitterness scrabbled for verbal airtime. But logic prevailed. A hard bite to his lower lip and they disappeared off his tongue.

   He stood by the door, keeping the women in sight until the street crowd swallowed them up. A little wistful himself, he had a strong desire to go with them until a comforting hand touched his shoulder.

     “You okay?” Sofia asked.

     “Yeah, I’m fine.”

     “Good! Come on, let’s go make nice. There are a few people I want you to meet.”

       Interrupted by prospective buyers and snobbish critics, the trip across the gallery took twice as long. In his opinion, it took forever. Even more trying, Sofia made sure to spend a moment with each one, unobtrusively pocketing business cards for future reference.

     “Sofia! Darling!” A bird-like figure, dripping with jewels, swooped in to kiss her on both cheeks.

     “Mrs. Braithwaite-Smythe, how lovely to see you!”

      The elderly woman waved a gnarled, manicured finger. “You’ve been a naughty girl, Sofia!  Prescott lamented the other day over tea that he hadn’t heard from you in ages.” She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Do give him a ring, my dear. He so looks forward to your talks.”

     “I will definitely call him,” Sofia assured.

      A blue-veined hand fiddled with eyeglasses. Beady eyes squinted into slits as they peered over thick black frames. “And who is this handsome young man?”

     “Mrs. Braithwaite-Smythe, this is Justin Taylor.”

      The dowager examined him like a bug under a microscope before asking with obvious skepticism, “ _You_ are the painter?”

     “Yes, ma’am.”

      Doing her best not to laugh, Sofia cheerfully confirmed, “The one and only.”

     “Hmm. Then I do believe another go-round is warranted.” After summoning a waiter in their direction, she took a slender glass flute from his silver tray. “Now, if you both will excuse me, I shall take another look and canvass your canvases, Mr. Taylor.” She threw them a mischievous wink and, leaning on a silver-topped cane, shuffled toward one of the nude paintings.

      The evening continued in a blur with contacts made and egos stroked at a dizzying pace. But for him, time dragged. He stifled a yawn and decided on another glass of champagne. When that didn’t work, he switched to white wine, faking interest in yet another a pretentious conversation.

                                                                                                      ****

      Like a wisp of gossamer silk floating in a breeze, there was a faint rustle in the atmosphere. The subtle shift in the air was all he needed. Part instinct and part something unfathomable, the feeling defied any explanation the human mind could understand. He knew where and most important, he knew who.

 

Continue here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/969705>

 


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